


Flying Bird

by cornix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Queen in the North, an instant blaze if you will, the absolute opposite of slow burn, vaguely sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornix/pseuds/cornix
Summary: A drabble-y snapshot-collection of Sansa Stark's journey from being Alayne to the Queen in the North.(Companion piece to Watchdog.)





	Flying Bird

_The Eyrie_

She does not fear Petyr. She _does_ fear the inevitable marriage he will trap her in like a cage, fears the glint of secrecy in his eyes when he says _Together, Alayne, we will win this_. She knows whom he has intended for her to wed, and it is not the man she dreams of in her marriage bed. _He is dead_. She’s felt her heart grow cold of late. Any protectiveness she feels towards her cousin is outweighed by her desperation to get the upper hand somehow, to feel like she has pieces of her own to play. And what is little Robert if not a piece?

 

_The Gates of the Moon_

_And may your horse stumble, Harry the Heir, so you fall on your stupid head in your first tilt_. She is surprised, but not ashamed, when she hears the _crack_ of Harry’s skull and sees the odd angle of his back. Even lying flat on the ground, it’s so obviously _wrong_ , like a piece of parchment that has been folded; even if you try to flatten it out, the crease is still there. He leaves a red stain in the dirt when he is carried out on a stretcher. 

 

_The Bloody Gate_

”You might return someday, sweetling.”

”You shouldn’t call me that anymore.”

Sansa finally turns her back on the Vale of Arryn, and rides beside him behind their large retinue. 

”Oh? What _should_ I call you, then?” He says this lightly, playfully, expecting her to play along. She is so very tired of playing. _I need him, though_.

”How about just Sansa? For now,” she adds, hoping her smile reaches her eyes.

 

_The Neck_

There is shouting, yes, and the wordless howls she has learned to associate with death. A soft sound, like silk against bare skin, breaks through the sky once more and a rain of arrows falls upon her men. Never before has she felt such fear at a sound. A hundred arrows from above is enough that no man is safe, no helmet protection enough against the inevitable impact. Sansa stands on top of the hill grasping her banner for support. Through her heavy cloak, she feels the weight of a hand on her shoulder, and with a frown, she shakes it off.

”They cannot think me weak,” she tells Petyr, and steps away from him.

And so comes the impact, with thuds and screams. Her army advances.

 

_The Barrowlands_

_Your Grace_. It sounds odd, and yet so very familiar, in that rasp of a voice. But it was directed to someone else, back then, to someone who’s dead now. She’d thought _he_ was dead, too, but there he is, an apparition by the entrance of her tent.

”Let him in.”

Gerren knows better than to hesitate by now. And _he_ is certainly not hesitating. In the blink of an eye he is before her. There’s some desperation in his eyes, in the way he leans forward, in his twitching hand, as if wanting to touch her. Closing the distance between them, she makes the decision for him.

 

_The White Knife_

It’s no more than a week before he’s in her bed. They are none of them patient people. She’s a Queen at war, hanging on that precarious edge of victory, and he’s a quelled man sprung into action at last. She’s dreamt of him often enough, of his dark hair and hooked nose, his vast body and _oh, those hands,_ those hands with such unexpected gentleness for her to lose herself in. There’s gentleness in his eyes, too, and weakness, matched by her own as they partake in this strange new game with soft movements that harden in want and desperation.

 

_Home_

There is Petyr, still. She is fairly certain he tried to have Sandor killed in the battlefield at Deepwood Motte. Sandor almost laughs it off, says _don’t you fret, little bird_ , says he’s getting used to it by now, and her heart shatters into a million pieces. She has Petyr moved into chambers in the newly rebuilt First Keep. He is a later problem, she decides. For now, there are crops to be sown, and homes to rebuild. The North needs a stability worthy of its eight-thousand year old history, a task no education in courtly manners or warfare could have prepared her for. When she stands on the battlements addressing her people she feels a hand on her shoulder, but this time it is larger, a rough, gentle hand she has come to know so very well. All her court stands beneath her to see this display of affection and support. It is when she realizes that she really doesn’t mind, this time, that she decides that a marriage with Sandor would be nothing like the cage she fears.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. It seems I just can't leave these two alone. Thank you for reading!


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